Durselys In Hiding
by Scissorhands44
Summary: The (100% canon) story of what happened to the Durselys whilst they were hiding from the Death Eaters.
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER: I AM NOT J K ROWLING AND DID NOT CREATE THESE CHARACTERS (JK I ACTUALLY AM (JK I'M NOT (BUT THIS IS 100% CANON)))**

PART ONE

The door slammed shut as the heavy figure of Vernon Dursley slumped into the narrow hall. Petunia took a deep breath as she straightened her floral dress. She surveyed the table in front of her; everything was perfectly in place. The table was set, with the cutlery and plates all laid out neatly, ready and waiting for Vernon to sit down.

The expression on his face was presumably grim (Petunia had hoped that the aroma from the kitchen would at least tempt a trace of a smile to make its way onto his face) as he sat down in the small chair. Everything in the new house was smaller than Privet Drive had been, a fact which had made Vernon incredibly angry. He sat in the chair and picked up The Daily Mail (Petunia had it set out ready for him, a lesson that she had been taught a long while ago), barely acknowledging her existence. She walked quietly to the kitchen and took Vernon's dinner into the dining room, placing it on the table in front of him as though it was a gift to appease a god. She sat on the opposite chair to him and began eating her own meal, shakily bringing her fork to her mouth, over and over again, not speaking or looking up.

"Where is he?" Vernon grunted, interrupting the 'blissful' silence and making Petunia jump.

"Dudley's at a friend's house. I forget which one." Petunia attempted to sound normal; it wasn't very convincing, but Vernon was barely paying attention to her.

"Probably the blonde one. He's always with that blonde one. Fucking fags."

Petunia didn't know how to respond to Vernon's statement, so just nodded her head slightly to acknowledge the comment and continued eating her dinner.

As soon as Vernon had finished his food he vanished upstairs for a while, leaving Petunia alone to worry as to whether the upstairs of the little house was as clean as Vernon would expect. The mental torture was becoming unbearable to Petunia. Every little sound from the upstairs made her jump, her worry pressing down on her more and more. Eventually he returned down the stairs and they spent the night watching television in silence, Vernon dictating what the channel was as he always did. Petunia just sat and watched the television with unfocused, unfeeling eyes, imagining a day when she could be free from Vernon and his Nazi-like regime.

Petunia sat on the small double bed in her pink lacey nightie as Vernon finished up in the bedroom. She rubbed her hands up and down her long legs, subconsciously soothing herself, preparing for what was to come. The toilet flushed and the noise flew around the house, signalling to Petunia that it was time. She took a deep breath and lay down in the bed, waiting for that familiar silhouette to block out the light from the corridor. Eventually it came, and Petunia's husband (and controller) walked into the room. He lay down on the bed next to her, not paying any attention to her, not making eye contact. He just began to caress her body, starting at her legs and making his way up to her vagina. Petunia was always surprised at how gentle Vernon was when they made love, how he loved her like she was a perfect jewel, like a beautiful, young, precious thing which needed to be handled with care – a vast difference to the norm.

His tongue entered her vagina and she whimpered, getting a huge amount of pleasure from the experience, but being repulsed at the same time. The deeper his tongue went the better it felt, but she was still very aware that it was Vernon's tongue, the tongue that could once pushed her to climax now repulsed her deeply. His moustache too, its bristles tickling her soft skin… she did her best to hide her disgust, pretending that she was loving every moment of the sickening experience. It wasn't easy.

After a few moments of this agony Vernon's tongue left her hole and slid back into his mouth. Petunia revelled in the few moments of relief that she was enjoying, but it ended as soon as it came as something else breached her lips.

Vernon's 5-inch erect member found its way up her vagina, sliding through like a snake in a pipe. Petunia had to admit it wasn't as bad as she was expecting; his penis wasn't really big enough to cause much of an effect. She lay on the bed as Vernon raised her legs into the air, thrusting in and out of her in an erratic manner. There was no rhythm, no control. He was lke an animal. After a few minutes of Petunia fighting back tears and Vernon slowly pounding into her she felt his penis swell and his rhythm increase – he was going so fast that she thought he may be having a heart attack (the thought of Vernon spasming on the floor as his heart began to falter giving her an unusual jolt of happiness).

He wasn't though – he was only climaxing, his sperm bursting out of his penis into her vagina like a firework. His softening member left her and he turned over and fell asleep as though nothing had ever happened. As his loud snores cut through the tense silence of the room and his cold spunk dripped down her thigh, Petunia began to sob silently.

The huge lump of fat and hatred next to her rolled over onto his side, the bed bouncing with his movements. Petunia was rigid against the ripples of their bed as she stared into the darkness, thinking about how miserable she was, how unfair life had been.

Did she deserve what was happening to her? Had she brought it on herself through years of neglect and abuse to her nephew? Was there really a God out there? Was she being punished?

It was likely. Petunia never thought of herself as being religious (she rarely set foot inside a church; she never prayed), but it felt likely that something, somewhere, was punishing her for what she had done to Harry.

And with that thought, she fell asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

PART TWO

Petunia was woken up by Vernon's alarm clock, as she was every morning. The blaring screech of the little device went through her, blasting her into consciousness. Vernon was already awake, his naked figure limping over to the cupboard for him to put on his dressing gown. He left the room without acknowledging her existence, leaving her again to her thoughts in the dreaded silence.

After a few moments of becoming aware of her surroundings Petunia got out of the bed and put on a dressing gown and pair of slippers. Vernon would get angry if he went for too long without his breakfast; Petunia had to do everything in her power to appease him, each outburst had been worse than the last, each time she had ended up worse than the last…

She hurried down the stairs, trying to be as quiet but speedy as possible. As soon as she got into the kitchen the cooker was on and the smell of bacon frying began to seep through the air. Vernon had retrieved the morning's newspaper from the door and was reading it with a look of disinterest on his face.

He looked up from the paper as the kettle began boiling and Petunia hurredly began making a cup of coffee for him. Three carefully measured sugars and a drop of milk. He seemed pleased with it.

A few minutes later the breakfast was ready and Petunia placed it on the table in front of Vernon, as well as two slices of toast and a tub of butter. Immediately Vernon began layering the butter onto the bread, spreading it almost violently, as though he was angry at the bread. He probably was.

Vernon had applied almost half of the tub onto the two slices of bread and Petunia had watched him through all of it. Go on fattie, she had thought, spread that butter, go on. Kill yourself with it, yeah, that's it shove that butter into your fat mouth you ugly piece of shit. Had she really just thought that about her husband? She sensed a slight feeling of guilt inside her, but she didn't know why. Why would she have to feel bad for thinking that about the fat bastard in front of her?

No. She had to stop thinking like that. She wouldn't become cold like him.

The rest of the morning passed her by in a daze. She was so well trained in the usual routine that she didn't even need to think about what she was doing; it all just came to her. Vernon dressed himself and cleaned himself, then left for work, leaving Petunia alone in the silent house. He didn't kiss her on the way out, he didn't say goodbye, he just stormed off, all of the care he had once showed her completely gone.

With Vernon out of the house Petunia quickly set about cleaning it: she wanted it spotless for when her husband got back. She cleaned it every day, keeping it immaculate as possible. Everything had to be perfect.

Once that was done, Petunia had nothing else to do so she collapsed onto the couch in exhaustion before quickly realising her error and frantically tidying up the dishevelled cushions and sheet. Vernon wouldn't be back for hours (most likely longer than usual, he often went drinking on Friday nights), but there may still be creases, and Petunia felt uncomfortable in such a relaxed position anyway. To her it felt wrong. She felt like she was living in someone else's house, and so it had to be treated as such.

After 2 hours of watching the dull reality TV of ITV 2, Petunia was startled by the front door opening. Dudley was back. She hadn't seen him in two days, nor he her, but neither went to greet the other. Dudley was upstairs as soon as he got in.

Vernon had gone to the pub, leaving Petunia and Dudley to eat her dinner of chicken and potatoes alone. The meal was silent, as all meals were in the hellish household. Petunia and Dudley exchanged a few awkward glances once or twice but neither made any other attempt at contact. It was only later that night, when all of the dishes were washed and it was approaching midnight when they actually spoke.

Dudley had come downstairs for a drink when he entered the small living room where Petunia sat hunched up on the couch in the corner.

"Are you okay?" Dudley asked in a surprisingly sympathetic voice. He usually just mumbled emotionlessly.

Petunia nodded. "Fine," she said in an unconvincing and shaky voice. It felt like the first time she had spoken in years.

"Has he… you know. Has he… done anything recently?"

"Not recently. Not since that night."

Dudley loitered in the doorway for a moment. "Why haven't you phoned the police yet?" he asked.

"I can't Dudley, I just can't," there was an odd tone in her voice, a desperate tone. She was obviously close to tears.

"Why?" Dudley demanded, his frustration evident, "Why are you letting him get away with doing this?"

"Dudley, he's your father, he's very stressed right now…"

"And? That doesn't make what he does okay."

Petunia looked at her son. He wore an angry expression on his face. "Even so, we're in hiding. We have to lay low. We can't draw attention to ourselves."

Dudley seemed to (begrudgingly) accept her response, before asking: "Do you ever think of him? Harry, I mean."

Petunia thought back to last night and how she had been reflecting on her treatment of him. "Sometimes. Do you?"

"Sometimes."

Dudley's response was short, because he knew that his mother didn't want to talk about Harry. He didn't want to talk about Harry. Instead he just walked away up the stairs, leaving Petunia alone again with just the glow from the TV screen and some terrible film to keep her company.


	3. Chapter 3

PART THREE

Weekends were always the worst. Vernon had nowhere to go and neither did Petunia. Dudley left the house at every opportunity (he was staying at another friend's house tonight; he did so at every opportunity), so they were left all alone together.

The day started like any other, only a few hours later than usual. Petunia woke up at around 10 o'clock and immediately made her way to the kitchen as though she was on a prison-like regime, boiling enough water to make two cups of coffee. As expected Vernon made his way down the stairs after a few minutes, his breakfast almost done. Vernon slumped into his regular chair waiting expectantly for his meal. Petunia expected him to at least attempt to make conversation with her – there was no morning paper, the television was off and the silence in the house was like that of a library, only condensed into a smaller space. Still, Vernon didn't make a sound, adopting his usual "silent and broody" mood, sitting into the chair and staring at the damp spot on the wall facing him. Petunia could almost hear his thoughts, his anger at the imperfection obvious from his eyes (she'd always found it easy to read him). Still, there was no violent explosion from him, not even a disapproving grunt. It was odd for him to be so silent, especially when there was a problem with their house. Perhaps it was because he was tired, he had only just woken up after all. Or perhaps it was because he just didn't care anymore, like all of his passion for everything had just gone…

Vernon ate his breakfast quickly and was soon back into the living room, where he now spent most of the time. The rest of the day was uneventful; Petunia busied herself in the garden so as to stay out of Vernon's way whilst he lay on the couch watching the horse racing on channel 4, occasionally calling for her to bring him a sandwich or a drink. Other than that they didn't speak until Petunia started making his dinner.

And that's when everything went wrong.

Petunia made spaghetti Bolognese every Saturday; it was one of those things that she just did out of habit without knowing why. It was fairly simple to make but she needed to keep a constant watch over the food which left her stuck in the kitchen whilst it cooked. As was the case every Saturday, Vernon ate his food in the living room on the same couch that he had been on all day; by Saturday evening Vernon and the couch looked as though they had merged into one big grey organism that just lay there uselessly. Petunia brought his food to him as she always did. It should have been an easy task, but on that night life decided to be crueller than it had been for the last 3 months.

There was a tear in the carpet; not a large one, not an easy to see one, but one big enough to trip Petunia up. For a moment Petunia literally felt as though the world had ended; the food went flying, leaping onto the nearby wall. Petunia followed, banging her head on the hard plaster and falling to the ground. The whole eorld went fuzzy; she could barely see, she could just about hear Vernon's voice blaring at her, the anger and hatred evident, every repressed feeling that he'd felt coming out, and all Petunia could feel was her tears slowly falling down her face.

She was snapped out of this senseless zone of near-consciousness by a heavy blow to her left cheek. Or was it right? She opened her eyes slowly, her first blurred image being that of Vernon's face; bloated, red and screaming with rage. She could barely make out what he was saying, his words fuzzy and incomprehensible in her ears. She didn't know what he was saying, she only knew that she wanted it to stop.

"STOP SHOUTING!" she screeched, immediately regretting her careless words. Vernon was stunned into silence for one, blissful, moment, before his venting continued. She was scared, more scared than she'd ever been, and that was saying something. But this was a different kind of fear – not one of Death Eaters, or Dementors or wizards. This was new. A fear that Vernon might hurt her. A fear that he might hurt someone else. A fear that this rage may never end.

What happened next was beyond Petunia's control.

She couldn't stop him, she couldn't control him, and she certainly couldn't keep living like this. This was breaking point. This was where she took her life into her own hands. This was where she took his life into her hands.

She barged past him and into the kitchen. He kept shouting to her, but she wouldn't listen. She couldn't listen. She couldn't focus on anything other than getting the knife. She yanked it out of the sink, almost slipping on the few drops that had come out with it, and ran into the living room, her only intention to get Vernon to stop shouting. Without thinking, without a trace of hesitation, she jammed the knife into his stomach. It stopped him from shouting, that was for sure.

Petunia pulled the knife out of her husband's stomach, her hands shaking, her throat dry. He looked into her eyes for one moment – she could see the emotions flash on his face; shock, anger, fear, sorrow, then nothing. He was gone.

The knife fell from Petunia's hand, blood splattering onto the white carpet. She could do nothing but stare at the body that lay before he, not sure if she was pleased or petrified. What had she done? More importantly, what came next? A life in prison, her head forever populated with thoguhts of grief and guilt. She couldn't do it.

Her last act in life was to write a letter. It was short – her hand was shaking and her head was fuzzy, even the right words that she found she could barely right. The letter was meant for whoever found them – it was an explanation of what she'd done that night, an apology for what she'd done in her life and a record of Petunia's guilt and sorrow.

Kneeling down beside her husband, the man that she had spent 20 wonderful years with, Petunia sliced the blade across her stomach. She was dead within 2 minutes.


End file.
